Halo Genesis III: OPERATION ZENITH
by Electromotive Force
Summary: The 'Argo mission' was just a cover up to clear ONI of any prior involement on HALO. Now, the ambitions of Section Zero have come to fruition in a move that seals humanity's fate in a galactic war with the Covenant. This was the legacy of OPERATION ZENITH
1. Introduction

Since the dawn of conflict, every war in Human history was multi-faceted with many fronts, as was every battle within them.

Left flank, right flank. Foot soldiers, cavalry. Sticks and stones, iron and bronze. Sea power, air power. Thermonuclear weapons and electronic warfare. Spies and cryptography. Allies and enemies--the amount of variables could be limitless.

In every battle of every war.

Adversaries must exhibit cold, calculative, and adamant wills to sacrifice the few for the many on every front.

A galactic game of chess.

But some fronts are both immoral and unethical even in war, such as the SPARTAN program. It called for the capture and assimilation of innocent children into the military. They were taken against their wills and trained as soldiers to face a life of uncertainty and hardship. Many died, but many prospered and impacted Humanity in ways few other forces ever would. The legacy it left behind was one of hope and peace throughout a galaxy between many species.

One such other Human war effort was also created which could be considered the most vile and vicious act any Human could commit to another, yet could be seen as the greatest hope for survival...

Operation: Zenith.

This was just another front in a war.

A move that ended one war only to start a more horrific one.


	2. The Board is Set

**FW:** **United Nations Space Command Priority Transmission 0977854-V77**

**Date: **25 DEC 2524 (Military Calendar)

**Encryption Code:** Reid-Solomon-Red

**Public Key: **Null

**Author(s): **Lieutenant Commander Fhajad 034 (service number CLASSIFIED), UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence

**Subject: **Cross-referencing of geologic analysis to UNSC cosmic star charts.

**Classification: **TS-FOUO

/start file/

**Abstract: **James, after all endeavors of analysis failed on the stones and you subsequently recommended astrological application, we found some interesting parallels. Compared to certain sectors of the Milky Way galaxy, the arrangments of the jewel-like vertices on the stones correlate directly to several known constellations. This is very interesting to say the least. I have the results attached.

/end file/

Press **ENTER **to open linked attachments.

* * *

**---Original Message Below---**

_**From:** _United Nations Space Command/Office of Naval Intelligence/C3 Intelligence Affairs

_**To:** _United Nations Space Command/Office of Naval Intelligence/LtCol Elias Demitri

_**Subject:** Memorandum for record_

_**Traffic chatter report - Intercepted UNSC Communiqué**_

**MILSTAR Geosync. Sat. #12**

**Rcv timestamp**: 01 DEC 2524

**RSL: **40dBm

**BER: **4.0-9

**Viterbi Encoding?...**affirmative

**Reid-Solomon Encoding?...**affirmative

**Up-Converted Signal Spectrum: **Spread-Spectrum X-Band; Circular Polarization

**Demodulated Baseband Signal: **NRZ-Mark

**Companding Scale/Sampling Rate:** 96kHz

**Reconstructed Text:**_ Sir, we've located the source of the seismographic and radioactive disturbances. We've found something clearly alien buried under our own backyard!_

_We've unearthed a seven-segmented canister of unknown material. It's like nothing anyone's ever seen. We managed to pry it open at the seams. Inside, we found seven ordinary rocks. Many of these strange stones contained unique arrangements of crystalline networks on their surface._ _It would appear as though they were intelligently designed this way. I can't explain it. Nobody has a clue what they are or what they do._

_Either it's a hoax, or the biggest archeological find in history!_

_We've sent it to the ONI lab for testing and analysis. I'll update you when the situation changes._


	3. Two Councils of Fate

**Halo Genesis - Part II: Operation: Zenith**

"Chess is so inspiring that I do not believe a good player is capable of having an evil thought during the game."  
**Wilhelm Steinitz, interview with J. Moquette, 1896**

**_Two Councils of Fate_**

**0600 Hours, 26 April 2525 (Military Calendar (Earth Relative))/**

**Sol System, Earth, UNSC HighComm-- Sydney, Australia**

Major Robert Watts just entered the main lobby of the mightiest military fortress in history. Formally known as Bravo-6, this was the focal point of all Earth's military affairs, including the home to the mysterious Office of Naval Intelligence. Though he practically lived here for the past few years, the very sight of its grandeur still amazed him. The transparent, crystalline ceiling towered to a staggering one hundred-twenty feet and tapered off to form a conical peak. It was lined with a polycarbonate mesh—a protective web capable of withstanding a tremendous nuclear blast.

It was sunny and cloudless in Sydney, Australia today. The early morning rays filtered through the polycarbonate netting overhead and scribed ornate lattice works into the walls, the whole atrium reacting with a pale radiance. Like a prism, the light strained through and accentuated motes of dust drifting lazily upward—captives of the facility's powerful deionizing system.

Exotic flora and fauna kept the floor interesting and served as a nest for a variety of electronic eavesdropping bugs; every square foot was monitored. The inverted-parabolic contours of the walls became an ethereal translucence towards the bottom, then to opaque right before they merged with the black, tiled floor—like a glistening onyx expanse…like deeply polished obsidian, giving one the disconcerting sensation that they walked on a sea of black ice.

Thrusting through the depths were metal and explosive detectors. Like colossal torpedoes, the sleek, black contours of the equipment arched ten feet in the air before plunging back into the floor below. Curved and smooth, it was as if a family of killer whales had been frozen midbreach in a glacial sea. As he walked through one and looked around, he knew security was tight, but not easily noticeable; expertly designed that way.

Security officers blended in here and there—a janitor near the coffee bar, the bathroom attendant up against the far wall, or a blind man in civilian attire with an attack dog that doubled as a guide. They were all good at their job—very good. Aside from the focused glances they stole and the flesh-colored VF transceivers they wore in their ears, they were good and casual.

The seasoned field grade officer had observed a few things here and there during his stay at what regulars called, "The Hive".

Still, despite his perceptiveness and his cool head, he felt flustered every time he came. He wasn't sure what was more nerve-wracking: Working for section two or playing the double agent. Working in ONI had its perks. He had access to the most privileged information which made him the luckiest rebel spy in the universe.

He walked to the reception desk and produced a badge. An attractive, young receptionist nodded and smiled as the turnstile buzzed to let him further into the stronghold. He spotted the elevator that awaited him. Before he continued any further, he turned to the center of the complex, savoring a scent and thought about scoring some coffee to liven up his morning, but thought better of keeping his coworkers waiting.

He started again to the elevator laden with security measures. A thumb print and a retina scan let him in. Once the doors closed he had a lot of choices, but instead reached for a key ring in his pocket and inserted a black, anodized one with the ONI emblem scribed into the hilt.

It took a full four minutes and two kilometers to reach his destination, deep under the lobby.

Footsteps were all that could be heard down this perfectly silent hallway underground—beneath kilotons of solid granite and inside a globally-hardened bowl of EMP-resistant, Titanium-alloy. His footfalls were steady and muffled in his chlorophram low quarters, shining a mirror-black against the carpeted floor. He made his way through the corridor adorned with cherry-wood paneling and brass baseboards. Just being here made you feel on top of the world and Watts certainly was. He was finally in a position to take the world's eyes off the rebellion by breaking the most important news to his committee. Hopefully to follow, would be mankind's erudition of this event. This was his true goal.

He reached the end and punched in a sequence of numbers on a cipher lock, entered through a sturdy, steel door, and took his seat at the head of a conference table. His friends—none of the ones he preferred—and coworkers were already here with the data necessary for the briefing. He could see the anticipation breaking on their faces.

"Sorry for the delay, folks. The outside security has increased a little."

This council he presided over was only called for certain reasons. Reasons that most people thought were exactly, madness. He glanced over to a small view screen that sat on top of the table in front of him and in it were the delayed representations of foreign dignitaries from far-off colony worlds throughout the galaxy.

"We can begin now," he nodded to an assistant at the foot of the table.

Images took their place floating directly above the conference table. Images of a naval observatory satellite, date and timestamps on printed mission logs, and a sample of a peculiar image hovering off to the right of them. Everyone would save their questions for later in this formal meeting.

"Roughly one week ago according to the time stamp you see above, the United Nations Observatory station _UNO One,_ in high lunar orbit, was seeking and cataloguing habitable planets beyond our solar system to supplement the colonization effort. The mission at the time was to concentrate on sector B1008-AG of the Milky Way. It found one such planet and its co-orbital moon. Several minutes later during spectroscopic analysis, a new object rotated into view at a perfect Lagrange point directly between them. At first, it was interpreted by the satellite as a deep space anomaly due to the extreme range and its unique makeup. Intrigued by this finding, naval astronomers investigated further.

"Next slide please," he directed to a technician.

The frame fluttered, then shot an image that stiffened up the audience with a mix of emotions. Watts enjoyed what he saw on their faces. "This is uncharted space, undocumented in civilian or military archives."

He waited a few seconds to gauge their reactions. The senior-ranking officers were all awe-struck. Some stared in disbelief while others held their breath, glancing intently at one another for an explanation. Most were conversing between each other in low voices. As if a doctor was trying to snap his patient out of hypnosis, Watts spoke loudly. "First of all, with all the turmoil out in the colony worlds, we would like to keep this under wraps. The public just isn't ready for this. Any contact with an alien race is to be done discretely and with candor. We all know the scenarios. That's why we're here. We've been waiting for this, people," he said with excitement lacing his voice. "No one ever thought this day would come. What are they to say now?"

Watts marveled at the picture and the reactions from the room as the cosmic committee stared at the giant ring world nestled in between the celestial bodies. To think…we were not alone. First contact was only a step away.

If only Watts knew the truth.

**0615 Hours, 26 April 2525 (Military Calendar)/**

**300 meters further below..**

The man whose name and occupation was synonymous with power and influence, and to some...fear, just walked into the door to the strangest place he'd ever been; deep under the Hive.

Vaguely spherical in shape, an occupant only got to experience half of the hollowed out globe--roughly ten meters in radius. The interior surface of the "walls" were a pure white, letting the halo of lighting recessed into the "ceiling" illuminate the sphere freely. Accompanying the lights overhead was its co-centric ring of mid-range horns and high-freq tweeters covered in a white mesh to match. Ahead at eye level, were three cameras to view the occupant. Other than that, there was absolutely nothing more. No chairs, desks, tables...nothing.

This was an Alpha-1 briefing chamber. The most secure it ever got.

Claustrophobia invited its way in as he felt the curvature of the walls close in around him. He looked behind him after he crossed the threshold to the room, and saw the door close promptly. The seems disappeared an instant later in quiet foreboding.

The room was designed to be EMI/EMP-proof, sound-proof, acid-proof, and nearly indestructible.

It made him feel paranoid every time he entered having nothing to look at but the trio of electronic eyes prying into his soul. He felt paranoid. There was no monitor or display for him to look at. He was being watched and he never knew who it was. He knew their name, but not the face. And a vague name it was at that. DEMITRI.

Thie place was only used for high-clearance debriefings or secret interrogations, but today, it worked a little differently...

He stared right back into the unwavering eyes.

"So now the rebels know about the ring, Harvest is lost, and our agent is MIA. What's our next course of action?"

"Too early to decide so we'll wait. Even if the rebels find out, they can do nothing but watch from afar right now. Besides, our agent gave us Intel they couldn't _hope_ to get. By the time anyone else gets out there, we'll be ahead and have the upper hand. Are the stones safe?"

"Yes, but what if Watts and the rebels go public with the ring right now?"

"We can still keep the public in the dark. We'll leak out a story to the mass media of a 'deep space find'. Then we'll put out a counter-leak saying it was a hoax. By the time Watts and his rebels go public, it'll be a joke. For now, Watts is on the backburner. The ring is more important."

"When do we deal with him though?"

"Well, that's an interesting concept. He hasn't gone public yet so he must be playing it safe for now. Mass transit records show him headed back to his little corner of the system after his briefing."

"Should we snatch and grab?"

"No. Turns out Halsey's freaks are doing better than I expected which presents a unique opportunity. Use your contacts in section three to get the Spartans on an infiltration mission to Watts' hideout. Let's see if they can take him alive. If we give him the impression that everything is normal, he'll lead us straight to the honey pot. We'll know everything he knows, as well as who's sharing information with him...we can simultaneously close off the leaks in FLEETCOM and keep Halsey's SpecWeps away from the real action. When it's all done, we'll find a way to erase Doctor Halsey's funds _and_ her Spartans."

"The gymnasium experiment aboard the _Atlas_ four days ago failed. It's going to be tougher than we thought."

"Let me worry about that."

"And what about Harvest? All those people?"

"It's water under the bridge. Now get going."

"Yes sir." The junior officer snapped to, saluted, and about faced.

* * *

_Two councils. Equal and opposite. White and black._


	4. Communique

"Thou wert not capable of believing that in chess, another style could be victorious than the absolutely correct one."  
**Max Euwe, _Tijdschrift van den Nederlandschen Schaakbond_, 1942**

**_Communiqué_**

**0900 Hours, 26 April 2525 (Military Calendar)/**

**Sol system, UNO station one, Lunar orbit**

The ONI agent marched his way from the docking ring of the Naval observatory station to the command section. All the walls and bulkheads were hard and unforgiving, metallic and purposeful. Hydraulic valves, high-pressure lines, and mazes of circuitry crawled all over. There was no panache to your typical UNSC station, just mechanized efficiency. Testament to that was the low ceiling, so low that it barely accommodated him—and he wasn't that tall.

At the soles of his feet was a tessellation of squares that made up the metal grating of the floor for the entire station. Transparent as the Plexiglas right beneath it, it overlooked a labyrinth below of ducting, optical conduits, and various transducing equipment—and beneath this entirety, was the prized piece itself: The station's waveguide.

He had a walk ahead of him. The modular structure was huge. It was basically an obtusely-elongated cylinder, originally assembled in pieces, with a large aperture at one end—the opening that collected light from outer space.

At the opposite end was the sensory equipment. Mirrors, detecting diodes, signal conditioners…Vast amounts of taxpayer money created and maintained the priceless apparatus. That was where he was headed—to the processing section. Not to hack in, but to find those who discovered the ring world and make sure everything was copasetic in the way of keeping them silenced. Electronics could be manipulated with the stroke of a key or the desoldering of a wire, but people took a laboring amount of finesse and patience. Things were simpler on the battlefield, where he was forged...where he belonged. Still, he grew pleasantly into the ominous role of the ONI field agent. It was _still_ a battlefield...one for the mind. It possessed a certain...eloquence. He could appreciate that.

As he approached his destination, he spotted an officer at the end of a corridor. "Excuse me! Can you tell me where I can find the commander of this rig?"

"You're lookin' at him. How can I help you, Colonel…?"

"Ackerson."

"How can I help you Colonel Ackerson?"

"I'm looking for an ensign—" he consulted a printout "—Curtis."

"In regards to?"

Ackerson quickly remembered his cover. The man in front was not with ONI and should be treated as a liability. However, if worse came to worse and explanations were needed, he could reveal his ONI status because when it comes to agents in the intelligence business, you don't ask questions, you do what you're told. You just _do_.

Still, Ackerson needed to keep as low a profile as possible amongst the conventional UNSC, a feat easily accomplished. "I'm with the office of the Inspector General. I'm here for a random UCI inspection. Ensign Curtis has been selected for a QA write up."

"Random Unit _Compliance_ Inspection? What's _next_, stop-loss? Well...we're up to par, if not better. Right this way."

The commander led him to the operations deck where Ensign Curtis' station was. "Ensign, you gotta minute?"

He removed himself from his console, stood up at attention, and snapped off a crisp salute for his commander. "Yes, sir."

"You've been selected for a write up. Make me proud, son."

"Aye, sir."

"Ensign, if you'll follow me," queued Ackerson.

"Sir, don't you want to inspect the console first?"

"I'll evaluate your equipment later. Is there somewhere quiet where I can administer the exam?"

"Yes. Follow me, sir." He led them to a private classroom and waited for the questions. Only, they weren't normal.

"Curtis, I'm not an inspector. I'm with ONI. I need to ask you some questions about your recent find of the ring world."

Curtis swallowed. "Like what?"

"Is there anyone else that knows of it?"

"Yes, just my commander…as far as I know."

"Good. We need you to forget about it. ONI is keeping this highly confidential for the foreseeable future, at least until the rebellion is put down. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir. Not a word."

"Good. I'll tell your commander you passed with flying colors and to put you in for some nice shore leave."

"Yes sir. Thank you, sir." With that, the Ensign went back to his terminal and put the ring world in the back of his mind, never to speak of it again.

"Well, how'd it go?" asked the installation commander.

"Just great. You've got a fine sailor there. Now I need to ask you about this ring world."

"How'd _you_ know? I thought it was kept secret."

"All due respect, but I'm ONI, sir." He flashed the commander his credentials—the gold, enigmatic, yet somehow infamous badge of the ONI—a proud, spread eagle perched atop a globe. Inside the sphere was a triangle and enclosed within it, was a lidless eye, ever watchful—personified paranoia typical of the spook department. A streaming banner floated around the globe, just under the oculus entitled, Office of Naval Intelligence. "I need to know everything you know."

"Okay, you have my cooperation."

"Who else knows of it?"

"Just Curtis and the constellation commander."

"And the data on the find?"

"We've wiped it from our databanks. The only copy is on disk in the vault and only the constellation commander and I have access."

"Very good. I'm placing it on you to see that neither of them speaks of it outside of work."

"No problem, sir."

"Thank you for your cooperation and if you have any questions, feel free to contact ONI."

"Sir, I just have one question. You think it's aliens? I mean to build that kind of a thing…they'd have to be smarter than us, right?"

"We'll know soon enough, Colonel. Good day to you." He turned away and proceeded back to his ship. "Soon enough."

Ackerson had only one more place to go: UNO station two. Only one likely candidate for espionage was there—a rebel sympathizer, possibly. With his frequent transmissions that Ackerson intercepted, he knew this station commander was in contact with Major Watts, the double agent. The commander of this particular _UNO_ station was sharing classified information with a double agent. Whether by choice or circumstance, it needed to stop. This time, Ackerson had guards waiting in his ship if things got ugly.

His spacecraft was small, angled, and resembled interiors of UNSC vessels—hard and unforgiving. All the surfaces of the ship were coated in a RADAR-absorbent polymer and all the leading edges contained tiny incisions—near microscopic—about the size of one full wavelength of any RADAR pulse, meant to catch and trap the wave until it attenuated fully inside of the ship's baffles. Those particular waves that weren't snatched from the ambiance were most likely deflected off the hard slants contouring the spy ship, making it a ghost in the wind. Dubbed the _Prowler_, it was inconspicuous, fast, and sinister. However, there was no need for any guile on this mission—at least not yet.

He once again docked his ship with a ring-like structure that surrounded the midpoint of UNO station Two. He strode from one of many corridors linking the dock harbor to the main body of the observation post, and started for the command deck. Finding it would be easy as all the stations in the constellation were identical. The UNO observatory network was a joint venture with the Shaw-Fujikawa Translight Engine back in the early twenty-third century. Many thought that if mankind was to traverse the galaxy, then he'd better know where to begin. Earth-based telescopic arrays were too weak, even orbital platforms. Lunar orbit was an ideal location to place the UNO stations having minimal tidal effects, none of Earth's distorting atmosphere, no meddlesome magnetosphere or radiation belt…and none of her politics either.

But there was no time to delve into history. He needed to find this commander and find out what he knew. He obviously had ties into ONI, and with Watts, which wasn't good.

He found the command deck. Stenciled on an incongruous, wooden door was Colonel Taylor. A full bird. Even though Ackerson was ONI, empowered with enormous discretionary capacity, customs and courtesies still applied to the higher ranking. Behind the open door was a man at his desk. "Excuse me, sir. Might I have a word?"

"Yes. What can I help you with?" the Colonel asked.

"I'm here on official business. Actually, it's pretty urgent. Can I close the door behind?"

"Absolutely. Now what's the matter?"

"You and I need to come to an understanding?"

"Ah," he replied with mock ignorance. "And what understanding is that?"

"About this recent find."

"Okay, and what is that?"

"Don't play stupid with me. I'm with ONI and we know what's been found. We're taking over this station. You will not speak of this discovery to anyone ever again. Expect to be reassigned as well."

"Why this cover up? We have it under control. We won't let it leak out."

"You can't guarantee that, Colonel. I can. Take solace in the fact that this matter is being handled through the appropriate channels now."

"By who's authority are you taking this away from me? I demand an explanation."

"Here's your authority _and_ your explanation." He handed him a thin set of papers. "Orders from ONI. You are to never speak of this again. You will go business as usual and you will be watched for the foreseeable future. Is that clear, _sir_?"

The commander sat in place with his jaw set firmly, his eyes glued to the deck in frozen frustration.

"I already have cooperation from the constellation commander," Ackerson added. "So maybe I'll just hand you over to your bosses, or…" he fumbled for his chatter "…I could tell my guards that you fail to cooperate with executive order and that you're becoming 'increasingly belligerent'." Ackerson was getting mildly amused by the station commander's mounting rage and let loose a teasing sneer. "Are we gonna have a problem?"

He didn't get a response from the station commander, just a hard stare. "So be it." He reached for his communicator, prepared to transmit, but there was already an incoming message.

"Yeah," he growled. "We're clear!" he stormed past Ackerson and blitzed out of the room.

"You'll be watched!" Ackerson shouted as the Colonel rounded a far corner and passed from sight. He turned his attention back to this much anticipated communiqué.

He opened the message…

**United Nations Space Command Priority Transmission** **09872V-77**

**Encryption Code: **Red

**Public Key: **Null

**From: **Anonymous/Refer to master address list

**To: **unresolved recipient/Rcv source: 128.34.255.17

**Subject: **The eagle has landed

**Classification: TS-FOUO**

/start file/

Special Agent,

Our agent is here. He's not aboard his ship though. He's aboard the _Argo_...that scout ship they sent to Harvest. Get to Reach and extricate him IMMEDIATELY.

/end file/


	5. Knight's Gambit

"In blitz, the knight is stronger than the bishop."  
**Vlastimil Hort**

**_Knight's Gambit_**

**0530 Hours, 27 April 2525 (Military Calendar)/**

**Epsilon Eridani System, air space over Planet Reach **

Once again, Lieutenant Colonel Ackerson was on his way to another location to tie up loose ends. It was getting a little tedious. Had he not had years of training and discipline under his belt, not to mention the information he held, he might very well call it quits. But he wasn't that kind of man. He was a member of section zero/ONI. He was the all-knowing, all-caring saint of the Human race; determined to protect it no matter what the cost.

Though his usual dealings were with section three with special weapons designs and operations, section zero was his mainstay for the foreseeable future. No one even knew that a section zero existed…even some of ONI's very own. The thought alone warmed his blood as he stared out the view port of his Prowler space craft.

He took his sight away from the blackness of space ahead and placed his thought on Reach to the starboard. In roughly thirty minutes he'd be in Camp Hathcock, a meeting place and refuge for high-ranking military leaders, higher-echelon political figures, or anyone else that was too important to lose in battle. On Earth's doorstep, the Reach military complex was quite literally the last bastion of defense for all mankind in the face of a new threat—the Covenant.

Like a sister of Mother Earth, she was beautiful and majestic. Bearing much of the same topography, the only thing different was the greenish tinge of her atmosphere, laced with unusually high counts of krypton and iridium, most likely from a checkered past with the elderly cosmos. High above the ionosphere, it appeared as a soft, emerald glow—unique and beautiful. Ackerson made the maneuver to dive right through it.

Hopefully, this interrogation would go smoothly. He already knew by instinct that he'd have to devote valuable resources to cajole the crew of the _Argo _into silence. Though, the greatest thing about Ackerson's techniques of intimidation is that he in fact never bullied. He was cool, calm, and always used fear and force as last resorts. In fact, he rarely went that far. People cooperated.

So far, there were only a handful of individuals that knew what had just transpired in the past few days. Only one of them knew the whole story: Al.

Al had joined the crew of the _Argo_ it seemed. This was a problem.

Though he had the highest esteem in Al, there was still a chance that the _Argo_ crew found out something they shouldn't have. This is where Ackerson came in. Though Ackerson was acting on orders from a mysterious leader known only as Demitri, he needed to find out for himself what, if anything, Al disclosed to the crew of the _Argo_.

He arrived at a groundside reception/docking harbor. It was bright and sunny, about 72 degrees—a perfect day. Surrounding his landing zone and the entirety of Camp Hathcock were grassy, rolling hills with a snow-capped mountain in the distance.

Despite the electronic credentials he sent to gain authorization to land, security was promptly all over his arrival. After a few more identification rigors, he proceeded to the main entrance of Camp Hathcock. He glanced further on and noticed an odd vessel butted up against one of the main installation's service structures. He'd never seen anything like it before. Though it was docked here, it didn't look like much of an atmospheric ship. Its stubby wings and large fuselage were so unbefitting. It was seemingly built more for space commutes than for planetary missions.

More of Ackerson's practiced eye told of a hybrid design—ventral VTOL thrusters, peculiar main propulsion, unique surfaces, a pair of autocannons, a MAC battery, and plenty of external radomes. It was definitely one of a kind, but the most noticeable feature was plain as day. The rarity of the ship's features almost slipped a fast one by him. How could he have missed? It was right under his nose: The state of the hull itself. It was battered and beaten, with holes and dents all over. The ship had seen some heavy action.

He noted the only color against the matte-black hull—the tailfin streamer…

"The _Argo_," he whispered to himself.

Stepping up his pace, he made his way closer to the camp's main entrance. He could make out technicians and other laborers ushering off cryo tubes from inside the peculiar ship. Their casings were already cracked and pouring out vapor as the internals thawed. With haste, they all rushed them down series of service ramps via dollies and forklifts.

It must be the _Argo's _crew.

Ackerson was just in time.

Once more verifications were made against Ackerson, he proceeded deeper into the labyrinth of metal and stone—down secret elevators and wide maintenance corridors and through dimly-lit tunnels, perfectly in his shadowy element.

Then, once outside of his destination, he ran into the horde of technicians who were shepherding the cryo tubes. They all whisked by him, not paying any mind to his presence.

"I want medical teams on 'round the clock watches!" Ackerson shouted.


	6. Debriefing Part II

"To treat with the devil, you must first enter hell."

**Dweller folk saying, circa 2349**

**_Debriefing Part II_**

**0600 Hours, 27 April 2525 (Military Calendar)/**

**Epsilon Eridani System, Planet Reach, Reach Military Complex—Camp Hathcock**

"I want medical teams on 'round the clock watches!" Ackerson watched as the technicians drove their patients into a giant observation room somewhere off the dark recesses of the tunnel he stood in. He proceeded to a lounge to wait for the _Argo _crew to be revived.

Ackerson wasn't keen on waiting around with no work to be accomplished. He wasn't good at it at all, actually. He couldn't watch anything on the wall-mounted monitor if it wasn't the Armed Forces Network or had nothing to do with galactic events. He looked around for some reading material—nothing. Not even "Navy Times". He lifted one leg over another and tried to relax in the inhospitable, steel chair. He smoothed out the wrinkles of his jacket and tried to sit straighter.

A soda machine was off to the right, against the wall. The coolant coils hummed and a flickering, noisy backlight hummed as well at sixty cycles. This was getting old quick.

He looked around some more. The place was as plain as it got. But he knew that was just the surface. Though everything about the external appearance of the installation was unpretentious, there was more to Hathcock than meets the eye. Behind every wall, every support beam, and every door, was a variety of eavesdropping bugs—everywhere. Every square foot was monitored, at least in this section of the structure. Though the amenities were few and far between, the place was maintained as meticulously as a hospital. The walls, the floors, and any appliance were cleaned and disinfected to the degree of sterility. Every surface had a damp sheen to it and reeked of various lemon-scented solvents.

At least the state of it was up to par.

"What the hell," Ackerson said as he stood up and walked to the soft drink dispenser. He slipped a hand into a pocket for some change, inserted the coins, and selected something sweet. He rarely ever indulged in the treats, but this time was an exception. Things were going great, yet bad as well; bitter-sweet. Just like the memory of his first soda. He popped it, took a swig, and exhaled after he sent it down the hatch. "Tss—Ahhhh." It was pretty good—much better than he remembered. He savored every mouthful until it was gone.

Then, the door opened up and a man just like Ackerson strode through, paused to look at him, and took the adjacent seat. "Hello, James."

The voice was too familiar. It couldn't have been anyone other than—

"Demitri."

"Are you ready to commence the debrief?"

"Absolutely," Ackerson confirmed.

"The subjects should be awake any minute now. Let's go keep an eye on them. We don't have much time."

"We never do."

The two section zero agents rose and walked side by side through another one of Hathcock's murky tunnels, to their first place of business—towards the observation room of a First Lieutenant Brad Banga. Ackerson smartly slowed his pace so he could get a good look at Demitri, however good a hindmost view would do.

Demitri was slightly taller than average, with almost no fat on his straightly-postured body. His strides were fluid, yet purposeful, indicating a solid business man—much like Ackerson. Demitri was easily in his sixties, but age was nothing but a number as he still had the vigor of an athlete in his prime. The man was surely at the Zenith of his career. His grey head of hair was cropped extremely short, looking more like a rider's helmet against his blocky skull. His broad shoulders suggested strength and will, and his demeanor and disposition was to say the least, influential. Ackerson didn't like being called by his first name, but he only now noticed that Demitri addressed him as such back in the lounge. Demitri was quite a character by the side of introductions and first impressions.

He sped up a little as Demitri glanced over his shoulder.

"Here we are," Demitri motioned to a stout door. "First Lieutenant Brad Banga—a good man. Be easy on him. Our analysis says he'll be helpful. You take _him_. Myself and other agents will debrief the rest of the subjects."

"This shouldn't take long," Ackerson affirmed.

He opened the door and left it open as he took stock of the Lieutenant laying upright in the bed with his back against the headboard. He resumed further into the cell and knelt down next to the pilot. He willed a smile onto his face and asked, "So, are you ready for the debrief?" He watched the man put down his empty plate on his nightstand and muster his first words in a week.

"I…I guess so."

Ackerson motioned to the guard outside to bring a chair in so he could sit next to Brad. Once everything was settled, the guard disappeared along with everything outside the cell as the door closed. Ackerson eased into his seat. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

"Uh, no. Not really," Brad replied.

Ackerson took a drag and let the chemicals wash over him in a euphoric wave. He could see Brad's reaction to his elated air.

"Can I bum one?"

This was not in Brad's character. He'd studied up on Brad prior to coming. What else would change? Hopefully, nothing. "Sure. Our records indicate you don't smoke. Why the sudden change?"

A smile mounted on the LT's fatigued visage. "I figured I'd start in light of recent events."

"Understandable." Ackerson naturally took a liking to Brad for some reason. Maybe it was because he was a good employee; a good man. He'd basically been through hell and back. It'd be a real shame if he didn't cooperate today. Who knows what Ackerson might have to do to him. Ackerson tried to appeal to Brad's casual side and spoke the words with blasé. "But you know…these things will _kill ya_."

"Heheh. So I've heard," Brad chuckled.

Brad appeared to be an easy-going family man—his motives were simple. This would be a walk in the park. "I'm Lieutenant Colonel Ackerson, by the way. I know you think the suit is odd for a military man, but I'm a special agent with the Office of Naval Intelligence. It's part of my job to…blend in. I'd like to know a little more about the civilian you rescued during your deployment."

He watched Brad take in his first cigarette. He could tell he liked it. It was the finest leaf from Draco III.

"What did you want to know?"

"How you came in contact with him, how long he was aboard your ship, and anything he said about these aliens."

"Well, after we arrived and subsequently came in contact with the Covenant—"

"Covenant? That's the aliens?" Even though Ackerson knew who the Covenant were from Al's original warning message, and even though he hated wasting time in such a mundane way, he had to play dumb. The illusion of surprise had to be maintained.

"Yes. After we came in contact with them, they fired on us, so we moved to a nearby asteroid field. It was then that we found Al."

"Yes…" He gave away his first name. Were there any more surprises? Well, it wasn't all that bad. There's a billion Als out there. "...Al."

"So, we brought him aboard and used his ship as a diversion to get us out of there."

"Then you detonated the NOVA."

"Yes sir."

"Quite a sight, huh?"

"Well…sure."

Since Ackerson was attempting to relate to Brad as the 'common man', he figured he'd show off his sense of pride in the planet killer. Working with special weapons at the time—section three—he had a major hand in Project: NOVA. "And what did he say about the aliens?"

"Just that they called themselves the Covenant and that we are against their Gods."

"Where did he tell you he came from?"

"He said from Reach…on business."

"And did he say who he works for?"

"I'm pretty sure he said he was once a Marine, now he's a government contractor."

Relief passed over Ackerson. Al didn't disclose anything sensitive of the mission and Ackerson could let this man go free. "Good. Thank you." He stood up.

"Don't you want to know more about the Covenant? How they took out Harvest or what kind of firepower they're packing?"

"We already know," Ackerson replied, stopping short of the door. "We've scrubbed all the data from the _Argo_." He just about reached for the handle, but realized Brad was getting uneasy. Even though this mission was top secret and the good Lieutenant would remain loyal to that, he could still be susceptible to outburst. He was only human, after all. But Ackerson liked Brad too much. He'd have to put his best coercion skills to work, if only to save Brad's life. "Tell me, Brad…How does early retirement sound?"

"Early?"

"Some great things are in line for you if we get a little cooperation, you know."

"I'll cooperate no matter what, sir. Anything you need to know. You'll have full cooperation from my men as well."

"That's good to know. Collaboration is the sole of good business." Ackerson reached into the breast pocket inside of his suit, took out a set of papers, and pulled from his inner lapel a black pen with the ONI emblem scribed into it. "Here are your retirement papers. Sign by all the Xs and you'll settle down as a Captain, with one-hundred percent of your pay, free and clear."

Brad took a hard look at the documents. "One-hundred percent, huh? Lot better than my seventy-five," he uttered with an ambitious glean in his eye.

"Certainly is, Brad. And I'll tell you what: There will be no harassment from ONI."

"Harassment?" Brad's face furrowed into lines of concern. "Sir, did our mission go against protocol?"

Ackerson became conscious that he may've jumped the gun with that last statement. "Absolutely not, Lieutenant. We just need to make sure this incident is kept under wraps. The public needn't know there's a technologically-superior alien horde out there."

"What is the CMA doing about it?"

Ackerson sensed he may be losing the direction of the debriefing that he was aiming for, but he remained calm, not showing any sign of weakness. But Brad kept asking questions. So, Ackerson in fact didn't jump the gun; his instincts were dead-on. It needed to stop, right here and now. This was the time to issue his ultimatum of sorts. "It is now being handled through the appropriate channels. Take solace in the fact that you'll be able to spend all your time with your wife and your gorgeous daughter, Vanessa. I know _I_ would."

Brad stared back at Ackerson for a few heartbeats and swallowed. "Sir, this all sounds really good. I'll take it," he said as he hastily signed the documents. "Do my men get the same benefits?"

"Yes, in fact, they do. That's another thing, Brad…"

"Sir?"

"I know your mission is over and you want to get back to your family and friends, but this is a time to choose wisely which friends you remain in contact with."

"Are you saying I can't contact my crew?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying. Any slip up could allow disclosure of classified information to unprivileged eyes and ears, and that would just make things messy." He looked Brad square in the eyes and rhythmically slapped the ballpoint pen into the palm of his other hand. He hated this part.

Before he could gauge Brad's take on the whole development, the door opened. He glanced over his shoulder to see the newcomer and was met with twin, watery-grey eyes. _No._ _God-damned rebel scum_. Ackerson stood up with a cautious stance, ready for the unexpected. _How in the hell did he get here?_

There must be more doubles in the agency that were feeding him his information. The rogue Colonel in the UNO station was just one cell. He clued Watts in on the discovery of the ringworld. The only way Watts could've found this place is if he had another source of Intel. That was the only explanation. But how high was this network of treachery reaching?

The guard stepped into view just behind the double agent and shrugged his shoulders. "Sir, he had clearance."

Ackerson assessed the situation for a moment and eyed Watts hard. The bastard was still lower ranking than him, so that was good. Ackerson casually turned around back to Brad and paid no eye contact to the double agent, and pointed a thumb toward the exit. "Beat it, Watts."

The guard approached the new agent's side and waited for him to comply before he'd resort to any use of force. Watts stood there grimacing at Ackerson for a few ticks. His expression changed from negative to neutral as he looked to Brad.

Brad thought he perceived a smile from this Watts, but if he did, it was meant to be unnoticeable. Watts turned on a heel and proceeded through the threshold, vanishing into the darkness of Hathcock.

Brad looked back to Ackerson sitting in front. He was hiding something, but Brad figured he'd never know what it was. "So what's going to happen to Al?"

"That's an entirely new matter. Good day to you, _Captain_. We'll be watching."

Ackerson got up and strode through the door, dragging some of the cigarette smoke with him like mist attracted to mystery.

He proceeded back to the lounge and waited for his leader, Demitri, who arrived soon after.

"So how did it go?" Demitri asked.

"Very well. It took a little haggling, but all is well. I think I'll be devoting tails to Banga. He seemed…inquisitive."

"Yes, I feared we'd have to allocate field operatives to stakeout the whole crew, but if that's as bad as it gets, then we're sitting pretty. One thing: Master Sergeant Blake Pryor was a problem."

"Oh?"

"Yes. One of my agents told me he didn't get a good feeling from him, as if he were hiding something. We'll have to place tighter surveillance on him."

"Agreed. And _another_ thing: Watts is here."

"I'd figure he'd be coming."

"You knew?"

"I practically invited him. I need to find out where he'll go after this. He may be sheltered in other places than just that rock he's hiding under. No pun intended."

As Demitri finished up his explanation, it seemd as though his words fell upon deaf ears to Ackerson.

"Look, James, it's a neccessary evil."

"It just doesn't feel right--bringing them in so close. They can be trickier than _us _sometimesHow much further are you willing to let him dig until the next TREBUCHET? I respect your decision, but don't keep me in the dark."

"Sometimes, we must set aside our little luxuries and conveniences so that appearances can be kept on the up and up. You of all people know that. Just because TREBUCHET rewarded us in a big way back in 2513, doesn't mean it ever ended. TREBUCHET is an ongoing process and I don't see it ending until the whole rebel insurrection in run through." Demitri put a hand on Ackerson's shoulder. "The last thing I want to do is keep you in the dark, James. You are my successor. Put it this way: As long as he doesn't find out anything that could cause exceptionally grave damage to our endeavors, he's harmless. You know the old saying, don't you? 'Keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer'? Watts is our puppet. It's like I said: He'll lead us straight to the honey pot. And when we set foot upon this ringworld and all its fortunes, there will be no more rebellion."

"But now there's the Covenant."

"Yes…" Demitri said cupping a hand over his mouth and dragging it to his chin. "It is unfortunate Al couldn't maintain a peaceful relationship, but what happened, happened. There's no changing that, unless we uncover the secrets first. How's your ODSTs?"

"They're getting a little bored," Ackerson replied with a hint of anticipation.

"Ready for action?"

"Always, sir."

"Good. We may have to accelerate operations now. But enough of this. Someone's always watching in here. Now I'll have to pay a visit to the audiophiles," he finished with laughter as Ackerson joined in it.


	7. A Red Queen is a Dead Queen

"In your glory and your brilliance...in your finest, shining moment...be mindful of your opponent's design as well. It also exists!"

**Daniel Martigan, Grandmaster, 1st sect of outer colonies, 2492**

**_A Red Queen is a Dead Queen_**

**0630 Hours, 27 April 2525 (Military Calendar)/**

**Epsilon Eridani System, Planet Reach, Reach Military Complex—Camp Hathcock**

Though Ackerson faced straight ahead as he steadily bisected the dark tunnel, he could see everything in his wide field of vision. He was perfectly calm here. Enigma was his home.

Lining both edges of the corridor's base were thick, rusted out, pig-iron drainage grates that rebounded soothing, undulating echoes of quickening water against the long-standing igneous bulwark. Many knew that the camp could close itself off to the outside world in the event of a topside disaster. Hathcock sat on top of an aquifer, and could provide enough sustenance for the lifetime of a small city.

The wide tunnels of Hathcock's bowels were straight and long, with 4-way, ninety-degree intersections at abnormal intervals. The maze-like breezeways were poorly lit, aside from the occasional outburst of red or green or amber light that activated when approaching vehicles were sensed. Fresh tire tracks were pressed into the thin layer of dirt that covered the limestone bedrock a few centimeters further.

Together, the section zero duo negotiated this maze of the underground yet again. Just as robust as the camp itself, their destination was another fortified and heavily guarded room of sorts, similar to the _Argo _crew's observation rooms. Their temporary quarters were mildly accommodating, with only a simple camera in the corner of each, if only to observe their recoveries.

Ackerson could make out his faint, crunchy footfalls in the loose dirt as well as Demitri's. Ackerson's senses were attuned to his environment. Aware of everything, it was as if he belonged here in the shadow.

"This is it," said Demitri.

Ackerson listened attentively. Something about Demitri…

You just listened…and well. His charisma alone demanded it and you just happily gave it. It seemed right to help this man. He was basically Humanity's leader and caretaker, alone in a non-existent limelight. He worked hard so you followed him. To think that he was right here with the man that saves countless lives everyday, accomplishing everything, yet attaining nothing…

Just his chiseled face spoke volumes of his honesty. And his eyes…his eyes actually cared. Like the faces of a tenured soldier, an elected official, and the ideal next door neighbor all rolled into one, Demitri was the perfect leader to follow.

Demitri resumed as he glanced over to another room. "Information is knowledge…and knowledge is power. Al is full of it, which makes him the most valuable man in the universe right now. However, he's been through the most extraordinary experience of his life. Don't expect this to be a cake walk. Expect emotional instability, expect frustration, and expect…the unexpected. We've given him everything he's ever needed to be an incomparable soldier. Now it's time to see if he stood the test."

"I believe he could do it, sir. He made it this far."

"I know you worked closely with him throughout his training. I'm telling you James, don't get attached right now. I know it's easy to do. Hell, this is practically our son we're talking about. But remember: This is a mission—the most important mission of all time. Mission comes first and Al comes second. Time is of the essence. We'll take care of him as best we can, but we need his power so we can learn the secrets."

"I know, sir. But we need to go beyond just thinking as Al as beta priority. Without him, we'd be lost."

Demitri drew a deep breath, seemingly incongruent to his forged steel character. "We vowed at the very start of Operation: Zenith that we would put the many in front of the few. Sacrifices such as his are never in vain. And we will do the best we can to reintegrate him back into normalcy…_after this process is over_. Are we copasetic?"

"Perfectly, sir."

"Well, let's do it."

The room Al was now in was an interrogation chamber—very much unadorned with the commodities and very much intimidating.

Known as "The Sweat Box", the name pretty much gave it away. For years, it had been the location for countless inquisitions of members of rebel factions throughout the galaxy. If the mission ever permitted, they were taken right here—to the sweat box. The box had only a table, two chairs at either end, a novelty-like lamp hanging from a chain—equidistant between the proctor and the "hot seat", and the infamous one-way mirror. Behind the unidirectional, reflective transom was the observation room—aggrandized with sensitive audio receivers and mixers, as well as video recording devices.

The entirety was encased in lead foil and layers fiberglass, sound-proofed to outsiders.

Along the corridor they now halted at were two doors, along the same wall, and mere feet away from each other. One lead to the sweat box; the other lead to the accompanying observation post. The guard outside the cell was armed with a tactical shotgun—automatic and real nasty up close. He stepped forward with his weapon at port arms and challenged Demitri with the sign, "Meat—"

—and Demitri responded with the countersign, "Cleaver". It was an odd choice in duress words, but complicated was often the best. "You can leave us," Demitri told the guard as he gestured to somewhere off in the darkness.

They just about entered…

"Gentlemen."

A dark figure strode up to them.

"Step into the light," Ackerson demanded, squinting into the gloom.

"Thought I might be of service," he said as he approached.

The same watery-grey eyes that Ackerson had been accustomed to despising all this time came into view, as if the shadow of Hathcock's halls had conjured up something malicious for a nightmare—more like a nuisance. But it was all part of a better man's design.

What was it that Ackerson genuinely hated about Watts? He actually considered Watts just being a rebel, not a dirty, double agent. Biases aside, it was as if Watts wasn't a worthy opponent. There was no fire in the man's dull, grey orbs. He shouldn't even be a contender.

"Watts, you know you aren't wanted or needed here."

"That may be, but I've got clearance and if you want to bar me from the interrogation, you'll just have to magically access SIPRNET and take me off the authorization list. Good luck doing that in this remote and _decrepit_ facility."

Demitri, with still a hand on the sweat box door, took in a slow breath only long enough to glance at James just before entering the room. He got a nod from his counterpart in subtle reply.

Watts smiled as he observed the almost telepathic dialogue between the two. He was right. There was nothing they could do. Watts wrung out the tension in his neck by rotating it around and smiled at Ackerson once more before following Demitri into the box, but was stopped short by a firm barricade of a stiff, outstretched arm.

"Can't let you in there, Major. Only the head interrogator can authorize that. It's a one-on-one until the man says so."

The gold, oak leaf cluster sneered at the higher-ranking silver a moment and remembered the applicable protocol that outlined the present dilemma he was in. He brushed past Ackerson and resigned by way of a meek smirk. He opened the door to the adjacent surveillance room. Maybe he couldn't be right there with the interrogated, but a one-way mirror and audio receivers told just as good a story.

He sat down in one of three steel chairs that were just as archaic as the ambiance. He took his place and scooted closer to a table butted up against the domineering, one-way pane. Atop the table was a rack of audio/video capture utilities. He cranked up the volume and looked toward Ackerson with a wit gleaming from his sidelong glance.

Ackerson who chose to remain standing, acknowledged the antagonistic gesture with no particular reaction, and looked on towards the inquisition about to occur.

"So," Demitri began. "Let's first start at the moment you entered the construct's air space."

Before anything happened, Demitri stood up casually and leaned up against the boxed-steel table that separated the interrogator from the interrogatee. He placed his hands on the edge of the table and buttressed the weight of his torso into the rugged metal. The light chained to the ceiling hovered listlessly over his face and accentuated…_something_…a look on his face—but what?

He picked his head up and gazed straight into the mirror—his eyes burning two holes right through it. Even Al paused and wondered what had happened.

Demitri looked back to Al, and Al began to respond.

His lips started to move.

But Watts couldn't hear a damned word. "What is wrong with this thing!" Watts frantically tried to locate a fix on the audio synthesizer chassis atop the table. He caught Ackerson to the side, holding a wall outlet plug. It belonged to the audio equipment.

"Turn that back on!"

"By who's order? Yours?"

"You can't do that. It goes against technical orders."

"Wrong. The ranking interrogator on site has the discretionary authority to enact a privacy session. Don't believe me? Look it up: T.O. one dash thirty-two-I-B dash zero-seven-one. Interrogations and briefings."

"Watts flustered a bit as he pointed through the window. "He…he didn't order it!"

"Yes he did."

"I never heard it from his lips!"

"It's an implied gesture. You should know that, Special Agent."

"Pfffft!"

Watts stormed out of the room as the inquiry marched on beyond the mirror.

Ackerson got the last smile.


	8. Picking the Pieces Up

"I love all positions. Give me a difficult positional game, I will play it. Give me a bad position, I will defend it. Openings, endgames, complicated positions, dull draws, I love them and I will do my very best. But totally won positions, I cannot stand them."  
**Hein Donner, _Clubblad DD_, 1950**

**_Picking the Pieces Up_**

**0715 Hours, 27 April 2525 (Military Calendar)/**

**Epsilon Eridani System, Planet Reach, Reach Military Complex—Camp Hathcock**

The insignia of the gold, oak leaf clusters pinned to the epaulettes of his service dress hung lower than usual on his slumped shoulders. He trudged along through the abysmal corridors of Hathcock, anticipating the light of day. Seemingly, his own steps were forced through the thin layer of dirt. Reluctant to leave, it was as if he could still turn and go back to the sweat box and uncover the truth lying in wait—as if he could just ask nicely for it. He wished to impossibility that such a childish notion _was_ possible.

A giant, red LED flickered off in the distance to signal an approaching warthog ATV to stop at one of the various 4-way crossings. At least a half mile ahead it was, nevertheless burnishing Watts' face with a gloss that only sweat could create. He was no match for the sweat box now behind, much less the two that now controlled it. This was undoubtedly the worst he ever felt and despite all the Movement's valiant strides, it could never escape the clutches of the Colonial Military Administration. Robert Watts realized that now.

He was ousted from the one place in time, the one event that could give the rebellion the high ground it needed in the fight to come. It was over. He failed.

The queen was taken.

But all was not lost. This was just one move in the game…and there was always a way out; a piece on the board that needed to move. You just had to know all the factors in play as well as your own self. Now there was one last stand—a get out of jail free card. And he needed to get out of this one so he could meet with higher-ups to get a command decision in the pipeline—fast.

Though really, there was only one more viable option left—a desperate one at that. Even more desperate than this failed venture. But it was something—_anything_ to postpone defeat.

The ringworld discovered less than a month ago held secrets—valuable ones no doubt. _Priceless_. Whoever got there first was going to win this war. Whether by meeting a new alien race and hopefully fostering a peaceful and fruitful relationship, or running up and stealing its treasures away…any way you sliced it, that ring was the key.

After a lifetime, he finally saw the light of day creeping up over the final rise of the tunnel—a massive, corrugated, semi-transparent blast shield. The dozen-meter thick plexiplate filtered the UV rays through with a pale radiance, not doing much against the igneous rock walls and the brunette soil under his shoes. The labyrinth of Hathcock at his back sucked in the light like a black hole. He was so glad to make it out.

He traversed his way out a smaller, side door. Waiting outside in the grassy plain was his ship and his personal security detail huddled around it—bodyguards given to him courtesy of section two. Though they were outsourced, they still provided Watts the self-assurance he needed…and they were loyal to absolutely no one but him until he released them. But something had them spooked out there. He could see it. He could feel it.

Though they appeared calm at a glancing distance, the ever so subtle yet erratic twitching of their heads from side to side gave it away. Only Watts, after spending a few months with them could decipher their cryptic double-takes through their dark sunglasses. Not acknowledging them for the sake of any watchers, he whisked by them obliviously and stepped aboard.

Once inside, Watts reeled his commanding security officer in closer.

"So what's up?"

"Sir, a harbor security sweep came this way. They were doing some routine inspection of the yard. We had to comply or else we'd have to leave. We let them in and there was nothing unusual at first. They used dogs, resin detection, x-ray…the usual."

"Go on."

"We supervised them as they went inside the ship so nothing funny could happen. But several times, they disappeared in the ship—unattended. I know security sweeps, sir, and they took way too long for a ship this size. They were waiting on the right moment to slip away from us so they could plant a bug in here. Someone wants to track you."

"Can you find it?"

"We're probing the entire vessel right now. Nothing yet, but we'll find it."

"Do that. We leave for Earth now—"

"But _sir—_"

"Just do it. I don't care if they know where I'm going now."

The security agent stood in place to examine Watts apathetically, and then reluctantly complied.

"Yes sir."

**0715 Hours, 30 April 2525 (Military Calendar)/**

**Sol System, Earth**

**Hollywood, California**

**Time Dilation Factored In...**

"Okay…you want to have all jewelry off. Make sure of that. If anyone sees you with some wrist watch or a wedding band, they're gonna know it's fake. Technicians never have jewelry on when working with energized equipment, much less a thermonuclear warhead. Also, you definitely don't want any communication-electronics near the damned thing. Any RF greater than a milliwatt would set it off in the real world. Take off these sunglasses. Let's take a look at your tools. I mean, even though the camera isn't going to deliberately focus in on your toolkit, people will see it and they'll notice anything that's out of place. Every tool must be rust-free and have a thin film of machine oil on it. One thing I don't see in here is a clip-on heat sink. You must have that before you shoot. It's like EOD 101 to have a clip-on heat sink.

"And that's _everything_—just like you asked. These are the details that critics will notice. It's what separates the A movies from the B movies."

"Okay, Mr. Dufraine, why don't we do this another time when we can jot this all down? Come back tomorrow…say…noon."

"You got yourself a deal, sir."

Allen Dufraine got up from his novelty-like director's chair, shook the director's hand, and strode away off the movie set with a newfound bounce in his step. Life was easy. _Too damn easy!_ He thought to himself. Waking up at four in the morning? What was that?

Ever since retirement, he had a lot of spare time on his hands. And to keep himself from thinking about Harvest, he became an Explosive Ordinance Disposal liaison for tinsel town. He basically issued informal training to people starring in action movies where characters would diffuse live bombs or whatever. It didn't matter what they did, as long as the movie makers paid him for his consultation. And what a sweet payday it was—much better than his military salaries.

It was sunny and cool today…just like everyday here in beautiful California.

It was just as true as the day he uttered the words back at Reach's Star Dock: He got that house on Earth he always wanted. And now he was on top of the world. He occasionally dealt with a faint flashback of the Harvest mission, but what could he do? Dwell on it forever? He had a life to live. The aliens were light-years away and besides, ONI wasn't going to let any talk of the incident surface. He would be branded a crazy old, PTSD basket case. He didn't even delve into his own theories in the matter.

He was just a pawn.

He was okay with it. The bigger boys at CMA HQ were on top of it anyways. Wait...Now it was the UNSC—yes. He remembered running into a buddy still on active duty. Ever since Harvest, it was the UNSC. United Nations Space Command. It seemed even in the military that namesakes were always so politically correct. The CMA was created to police the rebel inssurections throughout the colonies. Now the UNSC, its purpose is to combat a new alien force. From the looks of it, it would be tough. Especially from Allen's sneek peek of it all at Harvest.

His old friend also told him of a counter response in development to the incident. To even let his friend disclose such matters to him was an OPSEC violation for sure, but Dufraine wasn't going to squeal. In his mind he was still a military man...just settled down, that's all. Apparently though, a small task force was being sent under Captain Veredi. He was just the man for the job at hand: A vicious, take no bullshit kinda ship commander. Hopefully, he'd bring enough firepower with him to shatter the Covenant's energy shielding and send them straight back to hell.

This was really the only dealing Allen ever had with the military ever since he separated as a captain, no less. Aside from the occasional audible click or noise burst on his phone lines, he was out of the loop. ONI was surely just around the corner though—keeping tabs—observing the good captain.

It was funny in a way. For the better part of his life he was fighting man—defending Earth, the CMA, and her colonies. But now in a flash, that was gone. His ties to another life it seemed were severed. He was free and clear with no more obligations to anyone or anything.

A clean slate after the horrors of Harvest.

Or so he thought.


	9. The Alekhine Exchange

_"Oh! this opponent, this collaborator against his will, whose notion of Beauty always differs from yours and whose means (strength, imagination, technique) are often too limited to help you effectively! What torment, to have your thinking and your phantasy tied down by another person!"  
_**Alexander Alekhine, foreword to _Mes Problèmes et études d'échecs_, Fred. Lazard, 1929**

**_The Alekhine Exchange_**

**0720 Hours, 27 April 2525 (Military Calendar)/**

**Minister System, Planet Minister, New Byzantium**

**The Alekhine Exchange**

**Time dilation factored in**

Outside it was overcast in New Byzantium. It usually was here. Due to Minister's slower than normal rotational period, there wasn't a whole lot of inertial give to the atmosphere. There was no jet stream. There was no unpredictable climate. And there was never any adverse weather. It was always mild and predictable, just like Brad's future. He was set—home and in retirement, with his family to share it with.

He kind of wished there was some kind of tempestuous conditions here. The same thing everyday got a little boring. The few times in his career that he was able to get a break in the mission and take shore leave back home, it seemed as though he wanted his vacation to take him somewhere else or be cut a tad short. If not for his wife's preferences, he'd have left here long ago with the wife and kid in the back seat…maybe to Earth.

But he was just glad to be out, finally, with his family. It was rest and relaxation from here on out. He could settle down with his wife and rekindle the long lost days. He could stand by her and watch their daughter grow up. He could just live a normal life.

But he realized there was something missing—something integral. His friends.

He couldn't even converse with them. Not a hello or how's it going…probably not even a postcard. ONI made it clear. Ackerson, made it clear.

As he walked through the parking lot towards the supermarket, he looked straight up into the steel-grey sky and begged God to lift that curse off him. Being home was great. He counted his blessings for that, but to not have friends? It was like saying you can buy a baseball and a bat, but you couldn't go to the field. What kind of life was that? Family was great and all, but even Brad needed release every now and then—a place to hang out with the guys, catch a game, or play the deck…_something_.

He knew what it was like to not have any friends…and having to search for them. It was okay and all, but a blight. When he first commissioned and came out of technical training, he had to make new friends all over again. He knew he was in for such a nuisance, being in the military, but he'd figure at _some _point he'd come into a routine. And a routine he indeed came into. He _liked _his friends. He knew them and they knew him. Hell, he'd _never_ have friends that knew him that good, ever again. They'd spent countless hours together on countless missions, always there for each other, and waiting for the next slice of downtime. They were his best friends ever—even Holmes, as new as he was.

Then the _Argo_ changed that.

And now there was this _Covenant_. Brad bent his head to the ground, remembering the sight of Harvest and the ruby-red teardrop of hellfire that hunted him down in the asteroid field that fateful day.

He suddenly picked his head up, realizing he just crossed the threshold of the market's sliding doors. A good deal of people were staring at him, probably wondering why he had such a horrifying look on his face. He cleared his throat, awkwardly sauntered on, and tried to look as casual as he did before his thoughts ventured to the notion of Armageddon.

He was rather on edge today. Literally just retiring, he decided to shake off his thoughts of recent events by accomplishing a 'honey-dew' list..._Honey do this, honey do that_.

Retirement? Yeah, sure.

He knew ONI was probably watching his every move as well—at least for the foreseeable future. He got used to the idea of every phone conversation being listened in on too. But he didn't ever look over his shoulder. He wasn't squealing. He wasn't going to cry havoc to the masses. What good would that do? It would only make things worse. Besides, Ackerson assured him that it was being taken care of. And even if Brad wasn't covertly menaced by ONI, there was nothing he could do. He was just an LT, not an Admiral. He was a bomber pilot.

A pawn.

He could worry all he wanted about a Covenant holocaust. It still wouldn't change a damned thing. It would only make what remaining life he had miserable. And miserable for his family too. He took a deep breath—grabbed a stylus from a tray at the lobby—he let it out. He was just going to enjoy his life from here on out. Enough of it was cast aside in favor of the CMA.

As he walked down the 'canned goods' aisle, he saw the age-old banner hovering atop the deli in the rear of the family-owned souk. 'The Alekhine Exchange'. It was funny because the surname of the family that owned this place wasn't Alekhine. It was Cooper. Why Alekhine?

Brad knew that Alekhine was a name for an opening move in a chess game. He hadn't heard any other iteration of it anywhere except in chess. He remembered back to his college days when there wasn't much to do after homework. The ancient board game was a pastime for students of his dorm room. He quickly took a liking to it and acceled, to the resentment of his neighbors.

He knew that the Alekhine Exchange, as the opening move was called, was best countered with an early exchange of pawns.

He focused back to his wife's grocery list and prowled the shelves, tapping on holographic product labels with his stylus as he passed. An audible tone was all he got in reply as he tapped away.

He prodded and jabbed away with the semi-conductive rod until his fingers were a little tender from holding it so long. He looked high above to the front of the store where 'checkout' was. His name in red LED hovered above with dozens of other names, all their subtotals corresponding to the next column in green LED. Brad wondered why everyone's money spent was advertised like this. Oh well. It wasn't a pharmacy or anything.

He rounded the rear corner of the 'snack food' aisle and was just about to head to the register, but a someone stopped him short—a face—Curly-brown hair still in regs, wide, brown eyes, and glasses…a friend that he wasn't supposed to see.

"_Selonke!_"

It was him—Jeff. Brad experienced an influx of emotions: Delight, exhilaration…and fear. How could he be here?!

"What are you doing here?" Brad asked.

"Keep your voice down," Jeff answered. "ONI is not far away." Jeff put a steady hand on Brad's shoulder.

"If they see us together, we're gonna get in a lot of trouble."

"I know. Listen: Keep your living room window open tonight."

"_What?_"

"Just do it."

Jeff smiled at him. Just as quickly as Brad smiled back, Jeff spun on a heel and walked away.

Brad was in two places at once. He simultaneously prayed that he _would_ see Jeff again, and that he _wouldn't_ see Jeff again.

Brad walked briskly to the checkout counter in the storefront almost hoping to see Jeff out front as he disappeared somewhere. He feverishly watched the till as it displayed his order. There was nothing he could do but wait as it accessed the Planetary Credit Network for his source of funds. The female cashier smiled at Brad as soon as "MIL" showed up on the credit scan. An old man in line behind Brad also picked up on it and offered Brad a textbook salute. Brad remembered the old rule of never saluting a superior in a combat zone. He was out of the military now, but still in a combat zone. He gave the man a weak returning salute, trying to not to appear too conspicuous.

"How long have you been in?" he asked.

"I'm not in anymore," Brad replied. "Sorry, can't chat."

Brad took his receipt from the clerk and sped away. Off to the side where the news stands were, he saw the tabloids. He only ever glanced at them while he waited in line, skimming the headlines on the covers to laugh at the idiocy of them all—always reaching and fishing for a story.

One cover had a headline of **'Alien Scare At Harvest!!!'**

Another had **'Little Green Men Show up at Far-Away Colony!!!'**

Off to the lower right of the last one, was a sub-headline entitled **'Mysterious Ringworld Discovered!!!'**

They all had laughable pictures of hastily drawn aliens.

The information war had begun. Either someone in a very low place had information from someone very high…or this was ONI's way of covering up possible leaks.

Brad wondered if he should actually start reading them.

But now where was Jeff going? Would he show up tonight…to tell Brad something about Ackerson or the Covenant? He had to admit: He was half tempted to leave his window open and find out about something that was really going on. Did Jeff know something?

Brad tried not to walk too fast to his automobile waiting outside in the parking lot as a motorized dolly followed him laden with his grocery order. He looked around side to side as indifferent as he could manage, looking for anything unordinary. He couldn't make out much. There were a hundred people wandering this way and that, walking to or from the store: Bankers and farmers and doctors and business men—all oblivious to anything outside New Byzantium.

All pawns.

If only they knew the truth.

Brad couldn't see any men in black suits with glasses, or an unmarked vehicle, not even a pedestrian with nothing to do but stand around. Everything was serene and imperturbable, like a false sense of security in Brad's mind.


	10. En Passant

"The most dangerous move a person can attempt is an uninformed one. In truth, no move is ever perfect, but you _can_ opt to choose the _most _correct...hope that your consistent patience and technique will wear down your opponent, making them overlook something small yet imperitive."

**Henry Fink, Grandmaster, 5th sect of inner colonies, 2434**

_**En Passant  
**_**1700 Hours Zulu, 27 April 2525 (Military Calendar)/  
****Minister System, Planet Minister, New Byzantium  
****Privately owned residence  
****Time dilation factored in**

Brad paced to and fro across his living room carpet. The sun was just setting, spearing through the fingers of clouds resting on the horizon. It passed though the window curtains—angling them downward at his feet—pacing fast over the floor. His wife was in the kitchen making dinner and Vanessa was fast asleep upstairs. Oddly, they both seemed like objects to him rather than people with personalities now, as if they were once the most important things in the world—now just tertiary substances.

He was putting the old mission in the front of his mind and not behind. Maybe he should just let it die…live out his life. Or maybe, he should just let it roam free, turn, and face the music. Just like his wife said: He was a military man, who handles his affairs, despite his personal discomfort.

He couldn't just turn away from what beckoned.

But he wished the Harvest mission never happened…wished he could turn back the hands of time. It was a curse. He was just a pawn in a twisted game of grand subterfuge. Something inside him died when he exited slipspace and faced down Harvest…faced down death. And that was just the beginning.

He put the hurt aside and started wondering if he should flirt with danger once more. Should he open the window, or not?

By simply letting in the sounds of the outside he could land himself jail time, or worse. He didn't even want to fathom the repercussions in disobeying Ackerson's mandate. The powers of ONI were far reaching, everyone knew that, but no one knew exactly how far they would go. Maybe as far as they wanted.

The point was…you just cooperated. But still, despite ONI's "influence", there was something shifty under the surface. Brad knew it—from the moment Ackerson stepped through that door to his holding cell. The way he carried himself—with tenacity, the way he operated and how he spoke—with ambiguous threat, and the look on the agent's face—as if he owned the universe. And Al…

Al had something to do with it all. He fit perfectly into place somewhere along the line. Ackerson's debrief was more of a questionnaire, with Al the prime subject. Plus, Al was conveniently situated aboard his own private stealth-fighter right when the Covenant showed up. Either Al was an extremely wealthy and connected man, or something wasn't adding up. Brad speculated the later.

A whole planet was annihilated and Ackerson, the front runner of ONI, shrugged it off without a passing glace. What the hell was going on? How could they be so calm about the matter—play the bold card? Sure, appearances were everything, but anyone, including Ackerson, would surely be perturbed by the incident. But no…not the slightest flinch. There was definitely something going on, but Ackerson made it quite clear that the fateful _Argo _crew would have nothing to do with it ever again. Their part in this tale was over.

Which left one more question: Why was Jeff here?

They'd both get shit canned if ONI ever found out they had met in the grocery store. And they would both surely be in the ringer if Brad took another chance with him.

But there was something primal inside Brad that urged to know. It was actually the supermarket tabloids that stirred him. It was insane how far ONI went to cover up things, even quelling any possible public suspicion by declaring any rumors as fanciful hoaxes in a medium none other than the frivolous tabloids. It was really quite elegant. One look at those headlines and rumors of 3 million lost lives on a burnt cinder-world would be a joke. A sick damned joke.

So…no. There _was_ something to find out and the hell with spooks in suits.

**0720 Hours Zulu, 27 April 2525 (Military Calendar)/  
****Sol System, Eath  
****Upstate New York, Circle P Ranch  
****Time dilation factored in**

Blake Pryor grabbed what he could from his cabinets and wardrobe, frantically searched his house like a crazed Easter egg hunt, and quickly packed what he needed to get along—clothes, intersystem transit passes, money, etc…

It was a shame he couldn't stay. He literally just got back from…_everything_. He just flew in from his debriefing at Hathcock, just retired, and just got back to his home that he hadn't seen since he was approved for his last shore leave—about three years ago. His father had played caretaker to his lovely home in upstate New York ever since. Too bad he wasn't around either. Blake would've at least liked to say hello. Oh well.

There was another mission now. A personal mission…

To find out what in the Sam hell was going on.

And time was of the essence. Something strange had just occurred, and coincidence was a prospect that Blake ruled impossible. The fact that every time he tried to call Banga, the line just dropped. Every other call was fine, but to Brad…

This was exceptionally bad news.

He was indeed watched.

He cursed himself for making as many calls as he did before realizing. Not just a few calls, but ten, all in a row. He should've known. He was probably red-flagged at two. He had to leave.

Hopefully, they weren't watching him right this very second, but he panicked at the likelihood of that foolish notion an instant later. They were _always_ watching. ONI assured him of that before he left Reach.

Maybe, just maybe, he could get a ride out of the Sol System and contact Brad. Maybe he could elude the powers that be and disappear…get another clean slate. But surely, Brad's phones were also tapped. If Blake reached out, they'd trace him in a matter of seconds and pounce.

That left only two options. Option one: Suck it up and play dead.

Could he do that? Could he turn his back on what was right and wrong? Would he forsake what was bred into him from day one of his first enlistment? What he learned and taught for as long as he could remember? Integrity and service before self?

He stopped packing a moment and considered the grand scope of things—what could happen—what _would _happen if he acted on his feelings so rashly. There were very powerful forces at work here. His breathing deepened and his heart rate slowed as he took a seat on his bed. Backing down _was _certainly an option. A very attractive one since he could live to enjoy the rest of his life. No looking over his shoulder in fear.

Option two: Meet his flight commander face to face and explain what he knew—what he saw that the others didn't on the Harvest mission.

He resumed packing.

**Coincident…**

Ackerson always got interrupted when he least needed it. He fumbled with the chatter communication device in his pocket and brought it to bear. The message awaiting him was moderately encrypted even by section zero standards—as high as they got. He opened the message in the tiny touch screen…

**United Nations Space Command Priority Transmission** **09872V-79  
****Encryption Code: **Reid-Solomon  
**Public Key: **Null  
**From: **Anonymous (Refer to master address list)/ XMT source: 555.27.255.38  
**To: **Unresolved Recipient/Rcv source: 128.34.255.17  
**Subject: **Movement  
**Classification: TS-FOUO**

/start file/

Sir,

As predicted, the Master Sergeant has become agitated. He's made several attempts to contact the Argo flight commander within a short time span. Per protocol, we will continue to monitor his actions and will keep you abreast of the situation.

/end file/

It was inevitable. Once a Marine in the United Earth Space Corps, Pryor was the most likely to defy the ONI mandate of silence. He was a danger—a liability like a bishop waiting in the deep. But he would be taken care of. Agents were already tasked to him—pawns directly in his path. Pryor would eventually fall into place. He'd realize there was no beguiling ONI, much less section zero. Blake Pryor had no hope…

A Pawn against pawns.

**0730 Hours Zulu, 27 April 2525 (Military Calendar)/  
****Sol System, Earth  
****Upstate New York, Circle P Ranch  
****Time dilation factored in**

Nestled in between I-90 and I-88 was the vast and lush Mohawk Valley. Further intimate, was route 10. Right off of 10 was his hometown—Canajoharie—the best place in the universe. He hoped the Covenant would never find it and do what they did to Harvest…even long after he passed on.

There was something magic about the place…he was sure of it now. More than just childhood memories or long-forgotten homesickness—certainly more than his current vertigo of distress—this place was alive. This should be his life and his home from now on. Maybe it was twenty-five years of space, hibernation, and slipspace. Maybe it was all the tiresome missions or seeing too many other planets. Maybe he just needed to settle down once and for all; a place to call home. And _such_ a home it was.

Before he moved along he took a long, slow look around at his acreage—possibly for the last time.

Behind the house was a wide and flat patch of earth as big as the _Argo_. Surrounding the great, green square was waist-high fencing. Nothing fancy…just enough to keep the livestock in. Adorning the southern fence line—the entrance of the grazing yard—was the giant, metal letter "P" enclosed in a circle. The Circle P Ranch was passed down from generation to generation in his family since 1901.

As if the world was flat and his ranch was teetering on the edge, the turf beyond the northern fence line plummeted below and gave birth to a wide horizon of deep canyons and rolling hills alive with ferns, conifers, dirt trails, and river rapids. The whole valley was shimmering in a brilliant haze from the morning dew drifting upwards as it evaporated from a swift sunrise.

"God damn," he said softly as he leaned up against one of the barn doors and took one last look at the valley. He smiled a smile that he felt. As if reluctant to apologize to someone, he slowly turned away from the masterpiece and swung open one of the double doors to see something he also forgot for too long.

A 1996 Mustang Cobra convertible. Laser red with a saddle top and interior. It was a nice day for a drive. A "spirited" drive.

ONI spooks were likely waiting for him somewhere down the road.

Hopefully he hadn't forgotten how to drive a fast car like he stole it.

Blake fired up the Cobra. It roared to life with a menacing growl, then settled into a lopey purr. Idling at around 1000 RPM, the quad-cam IC engine had plenty of potency in store throughout its power band. With fossil fuel combustion engines being a thing of the past, he was fortunate some states still permitted its use for recreational purposes. Luckily, the fuel tank was topped off as well.

"Thanks, Dad," Pryor said to himself as he adjusted the mirrors.

He kicked in the multi-quadrant clutch pedal and slapped the spring-loaded billet-aluminum shifter to the side, and then sent it home to first—the stout T-56 tranny complying with perfectly harmonized mechanical efficiency. He checked the gauges. Ship-shape. Fuel, voltage, coolant, oil pressure, and a few new extras he just now noticed. His father had taken good care of it while he was gone.

He unlatched the top from the upper windshield frame and held the momentary rocker switch until the canvass roof dropped behind the rear seat. It was a nice day after all. "Just like old times."

He gave it s shot of gas, let loose on the clutch pedal, and darted her out of the barn with a finesse he once knew. She still ran like the day he first bought her.

He sped down the slope of his private roadway winding out first gear to 6700 RPM.

Metered air rushed through the oval-bore throttle body, down the intake runners, and into the head. There, it mixed with high-octane fuel as the volatile stream was sent through mechanical valves atop each of the eight cylinders. The pistons drove downward with a fierce draft, sucking down the liquid-explosive. They sequentially hit BDC with the injectors misting the piston domes with a fine, octaneous mix, and made their return journey to TDC. Just before leaving Top Dead Center fully compressed, the spark plug nestled inside the ceiling of the bores fired. Eight furious explosions went off, one by one, driving the slugs up and down—attached to the crankshaft. It spun and spun and spun—the motion reciprocating into a force that the drive train could use. The transmission used the torquey rotation with a mechanical advantage and sent the power down the driveshaft where it finally met with the final torque multiplier: The rear differential. Motion was once again reciprocated and transferred into the asphalt via the wheels, shod with sport-rated rubber.

He eased on the accelerator, stepped into the clutch, pulled back on the stick, smoothly transitioning the gearbox into 2nd, took the tension out of the clutch cable, and mashed the gas once more—4400 RPM…

6700 RPM; 75 Mph…

Into 3rd; 120 Mph.

He covered a quarter mile in less than twelve seconds and abruptly slowed with a firm, steady pressure to the thirteen inch rotors before he banked left onto McEwan Road. Once straightened out, he made his way to the next road. Just a few meters past the intersection was a sedan parked along the side. Heavily tinted windows and a small array of various trunk-mounted antennas signaled Pryor that this was a stakeout vehicle.

And he was right. The car shot from the sidelines and started in pursuit as he whisked by.

_Damn_, he thought. _Already here_.

He nailed the throttle and the rear end squatted in compliance. He covered another half mile and was face to face with route 10. He took a left, with the full-size executive sedan in tow.

He smashed the gas, not caring how fast he went as he steadily rowed the gearbox...2nd…3rd…4th. The fore view rushed towards his windshield and inanimate objects whizzed by—the cowling of the hood devouring the road below. The engine screamed with delight and propelled joyous exhaust notes out the rear. He'd been much faster than this in his ship days, so why was he scared? Being so close to the ground?

He lost them for a good while, but they were still barely hanging on. Tiny pinpricks of light winked on in the rearview mirror right about where McEwan met 10. ONI wasn't letting him go.

He was already at wide open throttle and hurtling faster towards the windy section of road ahead. He grimaced as he was forced to slow down. He could outrun them, but he could never outrun the radio. Especially when they had a visual on him, but…

He knew this place. He had home field advantage. He'd lose them up ahead for sure.

The headlights behind him disappeared from his rearview mirror. Now he was out of sight for a minute. He alternated between heavy gas and heavy brake as he oscillated left to right in the turns—steep cliffs adorning the road bed on either side—still mindful of the aft view. Once the road straightened itself out, he put the pedal to the metal once more. He confirmed the headlights were gone in the mirror as he cleared the twisties. He'd only get one shot to lose them. The home stretch was up ahead—the route 10 split—a fork in the road. He could go left and take Mapletown Road to Waterville, or go right and remain on 10 to Ames.

Left it was.

He glanced up…still no lights.

He glanced down…130 Mph.

He glanced to mid level through the windshield. This was it!

He pounded the brakes and gripped the wheel hard to stay straight as the four-piston calipers clamped their ceramic pads onto the slotted and cross-drilled rotors. He braked just hard enough for the car to nose dive but not enough for the tires to screech on the asphalt. That would leave a trail. Immediately following the deceleration, he wrenched the wheel to the left. The car twisted ninety degrees and gee forces pinned Blake to the right hard—almost losing his hold on the wheel. He applied a small steering input and used a slip of gas to create a slight over steer, gliding into the new vector.

His heart fluttered and his blood warmed as he straightened her out, barely missing the adjacent tree line to the right. "Hot damn!"

He mashed the gas once more down Waterville, took a right on Old Sharon, and sailed back onto 10. By now, the spooks were probably cursing at each other and throwing their stale packets of beef jerky at the dashboard.

Selonke would be proud.

His next course? Left on state road 20 and straight on to Albany—maybe the international spaceport.

**Albany New York, UEG Spaceport NY05-A  
****Forty-five minutes later**

Blake had to ditch the car fast. ONI now knew what he was driving.

It wasn't exactly an inconspicuous car either. The looks he was getting from pedestrians in the long-term parking garage were testament enough to that.

He circled a few times and found a spot a good number of rows from the elevator. He had to play it low key from here on out. Hopefully, he could make it to Minister unscathed. He could meet up with Brad, talk things over and maybe find out what was really going on. Although, he already had a pretty good idea. He was probably the _only _one that knew anything besides those ONI operatives he encountered at Reach. He did not get a good feeling from them at all.

They knew that he knew…somehow.

And that civilian they picked up, Al, was the key piece to the whole puzzle. Blake figured that's why they were in this whole mess, besides the need to cover up the massacre at Harvest of course.

Blake understood the need for confidentiality in the Harvest matter. People everywhere would go crazy. The Covenant wouldn't even need to expend much effort to wipe out the entire human race. People would pretty much take care of the groundwork themselves from mass panic and hysteria.

But Blake knew, or at least had a good idea, what caused the massacre in the first place: Stolen property. Al stole something from them. Blake caught a glimpse of it as Al boarded the _Argo. _And Al obviously learned his lesson as he left it behind. Whatever it was, it was clearly alien—a living organism that Blake was entirely sure was extraterrestrial. And they hunted him down for it. They obliterated a whole planet of his kin for his treachery.

He reached the elevator, hit "L", and descended to the lobby to get a ticket out of here. The doors parted and revealed a sunlit architecture with a clear ceiling. A wide variety of flora and fauna adorned the edges and lounge areas. And upon the first step out of the threshold, it hit him that the place was unusually barren. There wasn't the expected bustling of business travelers, families on vacation, or the sort. There was hardly any staff as well—strange. He was sure he had nothing to do with it as he treaded lightly to the ticketing counter.

The traditional agent was there. She was blonde, light eyes, with a picturesque smile, ready to help. Everything seemed normal despite the ghost town atmosphere. Blake approached, trying not to appear too charmed from her good looks, and trying not to be the charmer as well. He stole a glance behind him—no spooks in sight. He let loose a little.

"Hi. I'm looking to get a hop to Minister…New Byzantium; earliest flight out."

"Okay, I just need some ID."

"Sure," he said as he reached into a pocket.

She cheerfully accepted the credentials as she beamed back at him. She pondered over the name on the card with a genuinely confused look, and then accessed her computer terminal. The befuddlement went away and she nodded. "Mr. Pryor, you already have tickets. Here."

She handed him a small folder, complete with the interstellar transit passes.

Blake cautiously looked around once more. Was it a trap? A stall technique?

He snatched them away from here and sped off, stopped, turned back around and scooped up the ID he almost forgot. He gave her one last look as he walked briskly away, up a flight of stairs that linked to the terminals.

He hurried into a bathroom, entered one of the stalls, and locked the door behind him. He opened the pamphlet and inside was his tickets, as well as a note. It read…

Mr. Pryor,

You're reading this because you want to know who has given you safe passage to the Minister colony. I regret to inform you that I cannot divulge my identity just yet, but in due time. Right now, we have to get you away from ONI. Proceed to the terminal, check in, and know that you'll make it safe and sound to your old flight commander. We've engineered it so ONI doesn't know of this trip. You'll be safe.

Once you find him, we will meet shortly after…to discover the truth and bring the matter to justice. The CMA's arrogance and treachery have gone too far, as you probably well know by now.

See you soon,

A concerned friend.

Blake thanked his lucky stars he had a new friend in the fight—one very powerful friend who was well connected. He proceeded on his way Minister.


	11. Pawn's Race

"_Would you be willing to take the gallant chance when it most mattered? This is the question contenders often ask themselves, the questions that define victory or defeat."_

**Alexander Kurtswile, 5****th**** sect of outer colonies, 2519**

_**Pawn's Race  
**_**1705 Hours Zulu, 27 April 2525 (Military Calendar)/  
****Minister System, Planet Minister, New Byzantium  
****Privately owned residence  
****Time dilation factored in**

Brad slowly, deliberately, and carefully opened the window. All the while knowing he was literally passing the point of no return.

Like some kind of foreboding reprimand, the warn night air hit him like a slap to the face as he eased the window open with the grace of a trapeze artist, painstakingly willing it to slide slower than it wanted to. Jeff patiently waited just outside the window sill, still hunkered down below the property's brush. They were both damned lucky that Brad's residence had flower bushes right against the eaves. Any one of the cars outside could be staked-out ONI operatives, just waiting for any of the old _Argo _crew to try something stupid. But the two ex-bomber pilots definitely had home field advantage. Knowing it, they readily exploited it. Brad practically rolled out of the window like an oiled sardine in a newly-opened can. He crashed to the dirt outside with no more than a rustle of the bushes, maybe just a small breeze to an onlooker. "Where can we go that's safe?" Selonke asked.

"I know," said Banga. "We'll crawl around the side and to the back. From there, there's plenty of routes we can take without being noticed. Where's our final destination?"

"The Alekhine Exchange."

"Are you crazy?!"

"_Keep your voice down_."

"We can't go there," Brad insisted. "We've already run into each other over there…and ONI could've picked up on that. Think!"

"I'm sorry, Brad. But we really don't have much of a choice. That's where we're supposed to meet our contact."

"Contact?"

"Yes, our contact."

"Who is…this contact?"

"I don't know for sure. He calls himself Howie."

"Bloody Elisa. Howie?"

"Yeah, I know. But he has answers—_claims _to have answers. Just bear with me."

"I can't believe I'm doing this. I should've just enjoyed desert with my wife and child and called it a night."

"What's the matter, Brad? Mad you don't have a night life anymore?"

"Whatever. Let's just get this over with and see if you're _Howie _can spill the beans on what's going on."

"I will. Just ride this one out with me. This guy seems legit."

With that, Jeff and Brad low-crawled on their stomachs around the side of the house, skirting the bedroom and living room windows. A hair's breadth away from being caught by the Misses herself. She might exude even more curiosity than ONI agents themselves at this kind of behavior. Brad tried to block from his mind the quality time he was missing. A warm bed, a soft and elegant woman, and a loving daughter sound asleep. What he had fought to keep alive all twenty years of his service to the UNSC. Scoffing at his present actions, he crept on through the dirt and the grime and the sharp brush, swatting away the thorns and insects, and slithering over the jagged roots.

After what seemed like basic military training, they reached the back of the house. Brad and Jeff stood up and brushed themselves clean of the earth and took a deep breath. Brad stepped over to a nearby spigot and rotated it _CW_. He reached for the hose attached, and brought it to his mouth for a drink, then to his hands to rinse them. He reluctantly wiped each wet hand off on either of his pant legs and handed the hose to Jeff, who declined. "We've got to get moving," Jeff said. "He's only going to wait for a certain amount of time."

"Fine."

Brad dropped the hose and turned off the spigot hastily, then broke into a jog with Jeff in tow. Jeff quickly reached his side, as always.

"Everything is going to be fine," Jeff said in a consoling tone. "We're going to get some answers and find out why ONI is being this way."

"I just hope you didn't bark up the wrong tree, that's all. Believe me, Jeff, we all know something is not right. But ONI is not stupid either, especially that _Ackerson_."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean: it wouldn't take a behavioral scientist to figure out that all of us were a bit skittish after that debriefing they gave at Reach. Hell, that place they had us cooped up in was practically an interrogation cell…or a prison."

"You're definitely right on that one."

The two of them approached a fence adjoining two homes. They were well off the main path of suburb streets so they were somewhat safe and invisible to any threat but the area they were now up against was decently lit, counterproductive to stealth. They had to get around that fence, and they had to do it without being seen. Making noise and upsetting neighbors at this hour would hinder their escape plan, even if it was only for one night.

"You go first," Jeff said. "I'll be right behind you."

Brad nodded and took a leap at the manmade boundary. Roughly as tall as himself, Brad had little trouble scaling it. Once he perched the top, he swung his body to the other side, and landed softly.

Jeff on the other hand, was not so fortunate as Brad. He was a tall man and heavy too. Though not disproportionate by any means, he was still, a big man. He didn't have to get a running start like Brad so he simply walked up to it and pushed himself up, but he forgot to place his bulky balance delicately on the wooden fence. It wasn't sturdy enough for his build. The soft foundation buckled under his weight and toppled forward. Before Jeff knew it, he was on a one-way ticket to the ground with a few planks of wood along for the ride.

He crashed to the dirt, the wood under him breaking with a loud _snap!_

"C'mon!" Banga shouted as soft as he could.

Selonke quickly regained his stance and sprinted out of the debris like a track star out of the blocks. Not an instant later, lights from the residence shot on. Dogs barked.

But they were long gone for the people inside to do anything or even see their faces.

Jeff and Brad tore through the remainder of property lines and straight on towards the Alekhine Exchange, sacrificing stealth.

Brad felt so wrong in doing this. This was not in his character—to sneak and connive his way around his own neighborhood, and much worse, disobey a superior officer of the UNSC. He was flirting with disaster, but what could he do?

He had to know what was going on in this crazy loop of espionage. Everything he witnessed at Camp Hathcock was wrong, all wrong. He was shut up and ushered out of the UNSC. He did nothing wrong. Absolutely nothing. And now he was cut off from his friends.

But more than just lost luxuries, there was something at the root of all this. Something that required all this bullying by the ONI.

This was his only choice. He had no other.

Their running had paid off, at least. They were only two blocks away from their goal. They slowed it down to a jog, which eventually fizzled into a fast walk. The bright lights of the Exchange were now visible in the distance. They had made it.

"Somewhere in the back, in the shipping and receiving section, is our contact."

"Howie."

"Right," Jeff laughed. "Kinda lame, huh?"

Brad laughed too. "Almost as lame as your NAV skills on the Harvest mission."

"Hey…that's not nice," Jeff replied with a cooperative grin.

Just then, twin lights poked on in the distance. Headlightsof a car on bright.

Jeff and Brad had to squint. Brad threw up a hand to cover up the glare. No use; he couldn't see a thing.

"I don't like this," Brad said adrenally.

"Should we run?" Jeff asked.

"Not yet. Just stop here." They both stopped walking and kept their stance. "We'll wait until someone comes for us or until they put that light out."

"I had no idea this was going to happen."

"Doesn't seem out of the question, seeing as how you know nothing about this guy."

"Something's happening."

"_What?"_ Brad asked.

"Someone is getting out of the car. They're moving."

"How can you see anything?"

"Just wait…"

A dark figure moved with the speed of a solar eclipse and stepped into the penumbra of light. It was only slightly easier to see now for the two of them. They lowered their hands.

Another instant and the lights winked off, revealing a pitch-black night and a bunch of blue spots in their eyes. The figure ahead was still dark, only the outlines visible. It was a man in a suit, draped loosely around him. He wore a top hat and carried a briefcase at his left side. Barely visible in Jeff and Brad's oversaturated sights was the red cherry ember of the man's cigar in his right hand. It slowly arced to his face, seemingly aided by the wind and not the man. The red ember intensified and glowed solid orange for a few seconds, then the cigar fell and the man approached, his dress shoes thudding into the ground like a man with a purpose.

**0900 Hours Zulu, 27 April 2525 (Military Calendar)/  
****Sol System, Earth  
****Albany New York, UEG Spaceport NY05-A/Concourse A/Terminal 1  
****Time dilation factored in**

Blake Pryor rose from his chair in the terminal lobby at the sound of, "_Now boarding all rows all passengers flight MY56 non-stop service to Minister Colony."_

Blake gathered his backpack. It was his only carry-on luggage. He liked to travel light, especially today. He wanted to remain as tactical as possible, especially with ONI-types not too far behind. Could they fathom that he was here? Ditching Earth?

He got in the boarding line and got his tickets ready. He unsheathed them from the pamphlet and placed them in his business hand. The service clerk ahead readily took each passenger's credentials and placed in the nearby scanner as they went. Blake came up. He handed her his ticket. She ran it through the machine and something odd happened. The machine, which was content to pass everyone else through, paused a minute just for Blake. "Oh, these things just quit at all the wrong times, don't ya know?" she said with a laugh.

Blake smiled carefully. A practiced smile that masked his true feelings. This machine was having a hiccup, which wasn't particularly good. Maybe the ticket was a fraud and the electronics picked up on it. The individual who sent him these tickets, who conveniently remained anonymous, could've sold him out. Could've tipped him off as he fled ONI. And Blake didn't even know him. Or maybe, there was just spurious voltage inside that caused this glitch. Maybe he was imagining things and just nervous. Either way, Blake was prepared to run.

But nothing of the sort would happen. The machine chimed a friendly note and the only thing visible on the console was green light. That most likely meant _good_. Blake held in his sigh of relief and smiled as his ticket stub was handed back to him. He proceeded down the passenger ramp and into the corvette spacecraft.

He could feel his sweat glands close up and his heart slow. Now he could breathe.

After the bottle neck at the main pressure door to the ship, Blake quickly located his seat and stowed his backpack into an overhead compartment, careful not to look too agitated. He took one slow, innocent look around the cabin and noted the many families and tourists seated around the vessel. What he was really looking for was something out of place. A lone person or maybe a pair that could be ONI agents on the hunt. He looked for the type of well-disciplined and well-kempt individuals that ONI loved to recruit from government or military agencies. People in business-casual attire, sunglasses, a straight-forward stare at just the right times. But the only well-disciplined and well-kempt individuals he saw, though, were soldiers either headed towards new assignment or just traveling on shore leave.

He eased down into his seat and sunk into the cushion. It was going to be a long ride to Minister and Blake definitely needed the sleep after the car chase, and especially, after all this worry. He was going to make it all the way. He was going to meet up with Banga, tell him what he needed to know, and hopefully, meet this new friend of his.

Unfortunately for him, though, there was one certain individual he failed to spot aboard the ship. Seated merely two rows back, dressed in a dark business suit, this individual had tabs on his mark…and was poised to pounce on Blake when he least expected it.


	12. The Next Queen

"_A bad endgame is equally debilitating as a bad opening or middlegame."_

**Hooper & Whyld, 1992**

_**The Next Queen**_

**1715 Hours Zulu, 27 April 2525 (Military Calendar)/  
Minister System, Planet Minister, New Byzantium  
Alekhine Exchange Business Establishment  
Time dilation factored in**

The man was within arm's reach from Banga and Selonke.

"Hello, Mr. Selonke." He said. "Good to see you brought your pilot here in one piece. I must admit: I had my doubts as to if this whole rendezvous would even work. Good job."

"Thanks, General Graves."

"General?" Brad asked, surprised.

"Yeah," Selonke said, "he's a General. Well…a General with the URF."

"Oh hell." Brad said, throwing his arms up. "Great. That's just great. We're socializing with rebels. Can we leave now?"

The rebel general stepped forth before Selonke could answer. "Before you throw this opportunity to the wayside, Lieutenant, understand that I hold the answers you seek. The knowledge I possess is the only way to enlightenment. The UNSC has betrayed you, betrayed us all. How did they? For what? Ever ask yourself these questions—how you wound up in your present situation?"

"That really doesn't matter." Brad said, more so to Selonke than the general. He turned to Jeff. "Buddy, we gotta get outta here before ONI finds out. We'll go to the slammer for sure. What were you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that we've been deceived. We both know _that. _It looks bad but this is our way out, Brad. We can know what happened. We can know what ONI doesn't want us to know."

"I'd rather bask in ignorance. You know…settle down with my family and just _live._"

"What if your ignorance costed you your life, Mr. Banga?" the General said.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"—And your family's life. What would you say then?"

"I'd say you're fishing."

"Am I?" he asked, brow arched high in caution. He looked up to the night sky and stared thoughtfully for a moment, then uttered:

"I've looked up at many night skies, but none so concealing as this one. Many stars and planets I've seen while wondering why a great many powerful people in the UNSC would risk the peace and prosperity of the human race, all for another piece of the pie."

"What is this guy talking about?" Brad asked.

"Just let the man speak." Jeff said.

"The aliens you encountered at Harvest—the Covenant—were once on our side. We could have been their allies. Imagine that."

Brad remembered every detail of the Harvest mission. The burning planet, the asteroid field, the Covenant starships and their superior weaponry…and the hate-filled communiqués they sent to the _Argo_. "If what you say is true," Brad began, "then what turned them against us?"

"Us."

"…And what did we do?"

"We betrayed them. The UNSC…betrayed them. Somehow."

"What do you mean 'somehow'?"

"We don't know exactly how, but we will find out soon. Your crew chief, Sergeant Pryor, is en route to Minister. We will wait in safety until he arrives. If what he tells you doesn't convince you, then you are beyond my help."

"Okay…and if what he says convinces me, why should I take your help?"

"Because you need it. Look at what they did to you. You were untimely discharged from the UNSC, no coveted retirement ceremony, no peace of mind. Your phones are tapped and your life is on surveillance. Can you honestly say you sleep well at night? Do you mind having your life documented and scrutinized? Do you loathe the fact that you cannot even call on your own friends?"

"What are you asking of me? To betray the UNSC?"

"We're asking you to help in sorting out the truth. We would take care of you."

"What…join some witness protection sham of yours? Walk out to my car one morning and it just explodes?!"

"That's not going to happen. We have connections on the inside; we would never let it get that far. You are now our greatest asset against the UNSC."

"I'd have to give up everything. My home, my life, my freedom. I wouldn't be living. Let me tell you something, General: I don't require much of a life, but it has to be my own."

"…Is that what you have now?"

**0900 Hours, 31 April 2525 (Military Calendar)/  
****Sol System, Earth  
****Hollywood, California  
****Time Dilation Factored In...**

"…So you see, they wanted peace all along."

"It makes sense…I guess." Dufraine said. Major Watts was definitely making sense to him. After all, the Covenant attacked the _Argo _for no apparent reason. And whatever the UNSC did do to provoke them, it must've been very bad because they destroyed a whole planet. But what could he do now? ONI had his number, literally. It was a wonder this Watts could even meet up with him with all the surveillance placed on him. Furthermore, he was just a munitions officer. What part did he have against ONI? Why _would _he defect to the URF? He was out of the military now, long gone from any oath or obligation. With no conflict of the conscience, he could look Major Watts directly in the eye right now and tell him to shove off. Dufraine was fine now; this wasn't his fight. But…

His closest friends were now in the line of fire as well. He knew that some of them wouldn't turn the other cheek like him. They weren't as pacifist as him. They always stood for something. The uniformed service wasn't just a meal ticket for them; they believed. That meant he would have to believe too now.

So, he had a choice to make now. Either stand down and let events take their course while standing on the sidelines, or get back to his only friends in this life and make a difference for the better. He had to be there for them, but the only way to do that was to go against Ackerson and ONI.

It was an easy choice.

**Author's Note: A little late in adding this note, but I just wanted to let those interested in my works know that I will be taking a break from writing for possibly a whole month. I started my first day of NCO leadership class and dang...it is very busy and stressful. So I don't think I'll have the time to update any of my fics. Sorry to say, but I really hope to come back to them when this course is over and done with. Take care and see you soon.**

**-EmF**


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